Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  She noticed the woman on the far side of the road walking her dog, standing there as the pooch relieved itself against a lamppost. Their eyes met. Angelina found herself focusing on the woman’s face as her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. The next thing she heard was pounding footsteps behind her and Joe’s unintelligible roar, accompanied by his massive hand on her back, shoving her forward. She wasn’t able to make out what he shouted as she fell and her head smashed against the stone wall. When the popping noises reached her ears, it took her a moment to identify them as she was unfamiliar with the sound. Gunshots sounded different on the TV.

  She was dazed. Her vision momentarily blurry. She was only dimly aware of the screech of tyres as a vehicle made good its escape. Instinctively, she put her hand to her forehead and took it away, wet with sticky blood.

  She looked up to see Joe kneeling beside her, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Then he turned his gaze on her.

  Somewhere near by, a woman screamed.

  Knee Deep in Shit

  Pamela Cassidy had joined the police force because she wanted to help people. She really did. Alright, that wasn’t the only reason, but it was definitely one of the reasons. So much so that if you’d told her even a week ago that a scream of terror from one of her colleagues would only result in her rolling her eyes and tutting, she wouldn’t have believed you. They say a week is a long time in politics, but it turned out a couple of hours was a long time in policing – at least it was if you were doing that so-called policing in a dump. An actual dump.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” yelped Detective John Carlson behind her, at a pitch a schoolgirl would have found embarrassing.

  If Pamela was honest, it had been funny for a while. She’d also tried to calm him down and sympathise with him, because she wasn’t a monster. But she was confident that she spoke not just for herself but also for the two uniforms, the three refuse technicians they’d been provided with reluctantly by the dump’s manager, and Danny from the technical bureau, when she said that Detective Carlson’s ongoing panic attack was getting pretty old.

  They were in hazmat suits, scouring an area of about 50 feet squared for a possible murder weapon. The driver from the skip company reckoned he dumped his load here yesterday, but they weren’t one hundred percent sure as he’d dumped several loads over the course of the day and, as he put it, “It’s rubbish. Who bothers their bollocks keeping track of rubbish?”

  She was coming to the end of her allotted fifteen-minute break, which was why she was delighted when her phone showed a call coming through from the office. Having to take it meant she’d be unable to rejoin the search for a few more precious minutes.

  “Hello. Detective Cassidy speaking.”

  “Butch, I’m not distracting you from going through some bins, am I?”

  It was DS Paschal Burke, who was nowhere near as funny as he seemed to think he was.

  “Jesus,” came the screech from behind her. “I’m sure something touched my leg. Something definitely touched my leg that time!”

  “What on earth is that?” asked Burke.

  “That,” she replied, “is the worst day of Detective Carlson’s life. And at this rate, it might just be his last. If he doesn’t have a heart attack, there’s every chance one of us might kill him.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Did you know he was musophobic?”

  “He’s afraid of musicians?”

  “Ha ha,” said Butch without feeling. “Very funny. No. It means he’s afraid of mice and rats.”

  “In that case, I’d imagine Dunsink dump might not be the best place for him.”

  “Yes, I think we all agree on that. Well, with the exception of Detective Inspector Marshall, whose apparent response when Carlson had tried to explain this was, and I quote, ‘This will be an excellent way of curing it.’”

  Burke laughed.

  “Seriously, Paschal – this is way beyond a joke now. The lad is gonna do himself an injury.”

  “If you want, I can try and bring it up with Marshall again? But fair warning, whatever happened at his meeting with the Commissioner, he came back in a really foul mood.”

  Butch glanced over to the search site where Carlson, shovel in hand, was gamely trying to sift through rubbish while simultaneously looking in six different directions.

  “I wasn’t aware DI Marshall had any other kind of mood.”

  “It doesn’t seem like he’s taken much of a shine to you either. I thought that Cassidy charm worked on everybody?”

  “Well, I committed the most grievous of sins: I answered the phone to someone you and I have worked with for years, and then did exactly what the DI had instructed us to do. And as a punishment for that, I’m out here.” She leaned on the car and looked off into the distance as behind her, Detective Carlson gave one of his more dignified yelps. He was averaging about three a minute.

  “Rest assured, your presence was missed at the briefing.”

  “I’m sure it was. Anything good?”

  “I don’t know about good,” said DS Burke, “but I’ve been officially directed to ring Bunny and ask him to come in for an interview to assist us with our enquiries.”

  “That’s gonna be a total waste of time. If Bunny knew anything, he’d have told us already.”

  Burke paused for a second. When he spoke again his voice sounded different, quieter, like he was cupping his hand around the phone to prevent himself from being overheard. “Word to the wise, Pamela: neither of us likes it, but stay out of the way of it. I was chatting to a mate from down south earlier: Marshall is a hard-nosed bastard but he gets results, and, unfortunately, it appears himself and our friend have a bit of history.”

  “That should have nothing to do with anything.”

  “Yeah, I know. Meanwhile, over here in the real world …”

  “I know,” said Butch. “It just feels wrong.”

  From where she was standing, she could see the road running along the side of the dump. Some guy in an Audi had found himself stuck behind a bin lorry and, for some inexplicable reason, was honking his horn, presumably to jockey the bin lorry along the narrow winding road that barely had enough room for oncoming traffic. She smiled as the lorry slowed down and the binmen waved out the windows, enjoying the arsehole’s unjustified rage.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Burke. “You’ll love this. It’s about the knife that young Carlson will definitely find for us any minute now. Apparently, according to the autopsy findings, it had traces of cheese on it. It seems murderers can’t even be bothered to wash their weapons of choice these days.”

  Butch smiled for a fraction of a second, then her mouth dropped open. “Cheese?”

  Burke laughed. “I know. It’s completely ridiculous, isn’t it? We might need to put out an APB for Mickey Mouse.”

  Butch attempted to sound casual but her throat was suddenly very dry. “Are they … sure about the cheese thing?”

  “It came from Dr D herself.”

  DS Burke kept on talking, but Butch had stopped listening. Her mind was racing, remembering standing in Bunny’s kitchen as the man tried and failed to find the knife he’d had for that bloody ridiculous block of cheese.

  It wasn’t funny now.

  Not funny at all.

  Dimples

  The same sequence of words kept tumbling around and around in Garda Sean Heffernan’s head. Should have gone before I started. Why did I not go before I started? I’m never going to be able to hold this for two fucking hours. Oh God, oh God, oh God – why did I not go before I started?

  The instructions he’d been given were simple: guard the door to room 312. Nobody gets in or out of this hospital room until Detective Inspector Marshall shows up. However, on his way in to the Mater Hospital, Heffernan had run into Felicity Wallace, the girl of his dreams from his schooldays. He’d never had the balls to do anything about his crush, but had just admired her from afar. Well, there was the time he and Denny had hidden in a
tree outside her house with a pair of binoculars and copped an eyeful, but Denny had got overexcited and fallen, breaking his wrist as he landed. They’d had to pretend he’d come off his bike or else there would’ve been no end of trouble.

  Seeing her again, though, it had all come flooding back. Normally, such a woman was out of his league, but she’d married straight out of college and had gone through a messy divorce only last year. Now she was like one of those products in the supermarket with the yellow whoops sticker on it – back in his league. She’d been happy to see him too. She was at the hospital to visit her sick auntie who, by the sounds of it, was circling the drain. Heffernan had been sympathetic, kind, sensitive. He’d been reading a book that Denny had lent him – all about hitting on women. Getting them when they were vulnerable like this was perfect. He’d got her number and then excitedly texted Denny. If he played his cards right, this could be even better than that time Denny took Karen Murphy’s panties as a trophy. Yeah, alright – technically he had a girlfriend, but this was Felicity Wallace. Nailing that would make him a legend.

  While he’d moved reasonably fast, it hadn’t been fast enough to save him from getting a call from the desk sergeant to give him a bollocking. He was already on a warning. The sergeant’s boot up his arse had taken the shine off the day a bit, but still, Felicity Wallace – hubba hubba hubba!

  He’d rushed up to the third floor and been directed to a private room by the ward sister, where he’d confirmed the patient was inside, checked in with the doctor and then radioed in to update the sergeant. Before doing that, he really should have taken the time to go for a pee. He didn’t dare risk leaving his post now he was here, so all he could do was hop from foot to foot and count the seconds. He just had to hope that this DI turned up soon, as he wasn’t due to be relieved for three hours, and he was going to have to relieve himself one way or another long before that.

  Heffernan had been so wrapped up in his own desperate need for release that he hadn’t noticed the kid walking up to him until he spoke.

  “Here, guard, what’s the story?”

  He looked down to see a pre-pubescent fat lad looking up at him with beady eyes.

  “Can I help you, son?”

  “You’re not my dad.”

  “I didn’t say I was. It’s a figure of speech.”

  “Why are you guarding this door?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  The kid folded his arms and scrunched up his face. “Just making a bit of conversation.”

  “G’wan, hop it.”

  The kid tutted. “Do you know what your problem is, guard? You’ve got no appreciation for the fundamentals of conversation.”

  Heffernan scanned the corridor to make sure they were not being observed before hissing, “I’m not in the mood. Fuck off, or I’ll slap you around the ear.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say. And me, a cancer kid, with only six months to live.”

  He looked the kid up and down. “No, you’re not. Look at you. You’re in a tracksuit. If you were a patient, you’d be wearing one of those gown things.”

  “Shows what you know. Those gowns are for people having operations. My tumours and all that are inoperable.”

  Part of Heffernan thought there was every chance the kid was lying, but he seemed unnervingly confident about it. “If you’re a patient, what are you doing wandering around?”

  The kid leaned back against the opposite wall. “If you must know, seeing as I’m on one of my rest days from, you know, all the treatment and that, they let me wander about the place. I’ve nobody my own age to talk to. The only people I see are the staff, my family, and all the celebrities that come to visit me because I’m a cancer boy and all that.

  “To be fair, I used to get all the big names, but now there’s another kid who’s younger than me, and he’s a bit more photogenic. Dimple-faced little prick. He got a visit from three members of the Irish soccer team there last week; I got a fecking clown. I’m not going to lie to you, it was a real low point. Not even a children’s TV presenter, and normally you can’t move down on the ward without bumping into one of those weirdos.” The kid shook his head bitterly.

  “That sounds rough,” said Heffernan.

  “So, did you always want to be a guard?”

  Heffernan scanned the hallway again. “Are you sure nobody’s looking for you? Like, there’s nowhere you’re supposed to be?”

  “Nah. So, like, what attracted you to the guards? Was it the shiny jacket or the stupid-looking hat, or do you just like ordering people about?”

  “Don’t be cheeky.”

  The kid raised his hands. “I’m not. I’m honestly curious.”

  Heffernan bobbed his head. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell that to strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m a guard. You know you can always trust a guard.” Heffernan gave the kid his best winning smile.

  “Would you get out of that garden? Do you think I came down in the last shower? Next you’ll be telling me how you can always trust a priest.” The kid made a snorting noise. “I can see you’ve not read a paper recently.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t talk like a normal child.”

  “No kidding. I can feel the Grim Reaper’s breath on my neck. That changes a man. It’s hard to go back to playing with Lego after that.”

  “Right. I suppose that makes sense.”

  “So, you never said what made you want to become a pig— I mean, sorry, a guard?”

  Heffernan bent down, placed his hands on his knees and spoke in a soft voice. “I think you’d like to be a guard when you grow up. Am I right?”

  The kid slapped his hands over his face dramatically and shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus – that’s an appalling thing to say. I cannot believe you said that to a cancer kid. What part of ‘six months to live’ did you not understand, PC Plod? I mean, Jesus Christ, wait until the newspapers hear about this.”

  Heffernan straightened back up. “Ehm, no, I … I just meant I … I think you would look good in the uniform.”

  “And now he’s telling me how he’d like to play dress-up. Were you a Catholic priest before you signed up or something?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  The kid gave him a big smile. “I do. I’m only pulling your leg. I like you. I’ve decided you’re my best friend.”

  Heffernan felt disconcerted by this. “Oh. OK. Thanks very much.”

  “You’re welcome. I had a fish who held the role previously, but he died. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s been a tough year. So, what kind of hardware are you packing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Weapons. I know they don’t give you guns and all that, but I presume they give you something. God help us all if you’re supposed to defend yourself with just your charm and that goofy-looking hat. So, what do they give you? Knife? Knuckle-duster? Baseball bat?”

  “No,” said Heffernan. “We get pepper spray and a collapsible baton.”

  “G’wan, then. Give us a look at your baton.”

  Heffernan shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “You are kidding me? Dimples O’Donoghue got Bono and the Edge playing a greatest hits medley by the side of his bed, and I can’t even get a look at your baton? I don’t think I have the will to go on.”

  Heffernan looked around again and sighed. “Fucking hell, kid. You are something else.” He unclipped the pocket on his utility belt and withdrew the extendable baton, flicking it out to its full length.

  “Cool!” breathed the kid. “Can I hold it?”

  Heffernan handed it to him. “Now, be careful with that. You don’t want to go taking your eye out.”

  The kid held the baton in one hand and slapped it against the other. “Nice. I bet you can do a fair bit of damage with this.”

  “It’s not about hurting people.”

  “Yeah. Right. Pull
the other one, it’s got my cancerous knackers attached to it.”

  Heffernan winced. This kid was beyond weird. “Right, come on now. You should be getting back to your room. Give me that back.”

  “Ah, do you not want a game of chase?”

  “I can’t right now because— Ouch, you little fucker!”

  The invective came as the kid whacked Heffernan in the shins with his own baton, causing him to crumple to the ground. He took off down the hallway with a surprising burst of speed.

  “Come back here, you little prick!”

  As Heffernan raced around the corner, he collided with a large man in a sheepskin coat coming the other way.

  “Jesus, fella. Watch where you’re going. Running around the place like a greyhound in heat.”

  “Sorry, sir. Did you see a fat kid?”

  “I did,” said the man. He pointed down one of the perpendicular corridors. “He went that way.”

  Heffernan ran off in hot pursuit.

  Bunny watched for a few seconds, long enough for the guard to make it to the other end of the hallway and around another corner, before he lifted the sheet off the gurney he was standing next to and looked at Deccie crouching underneath it.

  “Alright, you can come out now.”

  Deccie slipped out. “That was brilliant. I love messing with a guard.”

  “Remember what we agreed. That was a one-time thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember, boss. Don’t worry. But don’t you forget your end of the bargain.”

  Bunny nodded. “I’ll go around to that shop that sold you the dodgy ice-cream and threaten to arrest the guy.”

  “And I get to watch?”

  “Yes.”

  “And throw a couple of digs into him.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Deccie shook his head in disappointment. “I did a terrible job negotiating here. I could have got a lot more.”

  “You live and you learn. Now, get out of here fast. Go and sit in the car with your grandad. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”